Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Presently he heard a man s footstep in the library behind him, and the subdued tinkling of a superior tea-service, of which the sound differs from the clatter of the hotel tea-tray, as the voice, say, of Fanny Trehearne differed in refinement from that of an Irish cook. But it irritated Lawrence, nevertheless, and he did not look round. He felt that when Fanny came down again, he intended to refuse tea altogether — presumably, by way of proving that he was not a spoilt baby after all. He crossed one leg over the other impatiently, and hesitated as to whether, if he lit a cigarette, it would seem rude to be smoking when Fanny should come, even though he was really in the open air on the verandah. But in this, his manners had the better of his impatience, and after touching his cigarette case in his pocket, in a longing way, he did not take it out.

  At last he heard Fanny enter the room. There was no mistaking her tread, for he had noticed that she wore tennis shoes. He knew that she could not see him where he sat, and he turned his head towards the door expectantly. Again he heard the tinkle of the tea-things. Then there was silence. Then the urn began to hiss and sing softly, and there was another sort of tinkling. It was clear that Fanny had sat down. She could have no idea that he was sitting outside, as he knew, but he thought she might have taken the trouble to look for him. He listened intently for the sound of her step again, but it did not come, and, oddly enough, his heart began to beat more quickly. But he did not move. He felt a ridiculous determination to wait until she began to be impatient and to move about and look for him. He could not have told whether it were timidity, or nervousness, or ill-temper which kept him nailed to his chair, and just then he would have scorned the idea that it could be love in any shape, though his heart was beating so fast.

  Suddenly his straining ear caught the soft rustle made by the pages of a book, turned deliberately and smoothed afterwards. She was calmly reading, indifferent to his coming or staying away — reading while the tea was drawing. How stolid she was, he thought. She was certainly not-conscious of the action of her heart as she sat there. For a few moments longer he did not move. Then he felt he wished to see her, to see how she was sitting, and how really indifferent she was. But if he made a sound, she would look up and lay down her book even before he entered the room. The verandah had a floor of painted boards, — which are more noisy than unpainted ones, for some occult reason, — and he could not stir a step without being heard. Besides, his straw easy-chair would creak when he rose.

  All at once he felt how very foolish he was, and he got up noisily, an angry blush on his young face. He reached the entrance in two strides and stood in the open doorway, with his back to the light. As he had guessed, Fanny was reading.

  “Oh!” he ejaculated with affected surprise, as he looked at her.

  She did not raise her eyes nor start, being evidently intent upon finishing the sentence she had begun.

  “I thought you were never coming,” she said, absently.

  He was more hurt than ever by her indifference, and sat down at a little distance, without moving the light chair he had chosen. Fanny reached the foot of the page, put a letter she held into the place, closed the book upon it, and then at last looked up.

  “Do you like your tea strong or weak?” she enquired in a business-like tone.

  “Just as it comes — I don’t care,” answered Lawrence, gloomily.

  “Then I’ll give it to you now. I like mine strong.”

  “It’s bad for the nerves.”

  “I haven’t any nerves,” said Fanny Trehearne, with conviction.

  “That’s curious,” observed Lawrence, with fine sarcasm.

  Fanny looked at him without smiling, since there was nothing to smile at, and then poured out his tea. He took it in silence, but helped himself to more sugar, with a reproachful air.

  “Oh — you like it sweet, do you?” said Fanny, interrogatively.

  “Peculiarity of spoilt babies,” answered Lawrence, in bitter tones.

  “Yes, I see it is.”

  And with this crushing retort Fanny Trehearne relapsed into silence. Lawrence began to drink his tea, burnt his mouth with courageous indifference, stirred up the sugar gravely, and said nothing.

  “I wonder when they’ll get home,” said Fanny, after a long interval.

  “Are you anxious about them?” enquired the young man, with affected politeness.

  “Anxious? No! I was only wondering.”

  “I’m not very amusing, I know,” said Lawrence, grimly.

  “No, you’re not.”

  The blood rushed to his face again with his sudden irritation, and he drank more hot tea to keep himself in countenance. At that moment he sincerely wished that he had not come to Bar Harbour at all.

  “You’re not particularly encouraging, Miss Trehearne,” he said presently. “I’m sure, I’m doing my best to be agreeable.”

  “And you think that I’m doing my best to be disagreeable? I’m not, you know. It’s your imagination.”

  “I don’t know,” answered Lawrence, his face unbending a little. “You began by telling me that you despised me because I’m such a duffer at out-of-door things, then you told me I was a spoilt baby, and now you’re proving to me that I’m a bore.”

  “Duffer, baby, and bore!” Fanny laughed. “What an appalling combination!”

  “It is, indeed. But that’s what you said—”

  “Oh, nonsense! I wasn’t as rude as that, was I? But I never said anything of the sort, you know.”

  “You really did say that I was a spoilt baby—”

  “No. I told you not to be, by way of a general warning—”

  “Well, it’s the same thing—”

  “Is it? If I tell you not to go out of the room, for instance, and if you sit still — is it the same thing as though you got up and went out?”

  Why no — of course not! How absurd!”

  “Well, the other is absurd too.”

  “I’ll never say again that women aren’t logical,” answered Lawrence, smiling in spite of himself.

  “No — don’t. Have some more tea.”

  “Thanks — I’ve not finished. It’s too hot to drink.”

  Thereupon, his good temper returning, he desisted from self-torture by scalding, and set the cup down. Fanny watched him, but turned her eyes away as he looked up and she met his glance.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said quietly. “I’ve looked forward to it.”

  Perhaps she was a little the more ready to say so, because she was inwardly conscious of having rather wilfully teased him, but she meant what she said. Lawrence felt his heart beating again in a moment. Resting his elbow on his knees, he clasped his hands and looked down at the pattern of the rug under his feet. She did not realize how easily she could move him, not being by any means a flirt.

  “It’s nothing to the way I’ve looked forward to it,” he answered.

  She was silent, but he did not raise his head. He could see her face in the carpet.

  “You know that, don’t you?” he asked, in a low voice, after a few moments.

  Unfortunately for his information on the subject, the butler appeared just then, announcing a visitor.

  “Mr. Brinsley.”

  It was clear that the manservant had no option in the matter of admitting the newcomer, who was in the room almost before his name was pronounced.

  “How do you do, Miss Trehearne?” he began as he came swiftly forward. “I’m tremendously glad to find you at home. You’re generally out at this hour.”

  “Is that why you chose it?” asked Fanny, with a little laugh and holding out her hand. “Do you know Mr. Lawrence?” she continued, by way of introducing the two men. “Mr. Brinsley,” she added, for Louis’s benefit.

  Lawrence had risen, and he shook hands with a good grace. But he hated Mr. Brinsley at once, both because the latter had come inopportunely and because his own sensitive nature was instantly and strongly repelled by the man.

  There was no mistaking Mr. Bri
nsley’s Canadian accent, though he seemed anxious to make it as English as possible, and Lawrence disliked Canadians; but that fact alone could not have produced the strongly disagreeable sensation of which the younger man was at once conscious, and he looked at the visitor in something like surprise at the strength of his instantaneous aversion. Brinsley, though dressed quietly, and with irreproachable correctness, was a showy man, of medium height, but magnificently made. His wrists were slender, nervous, and sinewy, his ankles — displayed to advantage by his low russet shoes — were beautifully modelled, whereas his shoulders were almost abnormally broad, and the cords and veins moved visibly in his athletic neck when he spoke or moved. The powerful muscles were apparent under his thin grey clothes, and Lawrence had noticed the perfect grace and strength of his quick step when he had entered. In face he was very dark, and his wiry, short black hair had rusty reflexions. His skin was tanned to a deep brown, and mottled, especially about the eyes, with deep shadows, in which were freckles even darker than the shadows them selves. His beard evidently grew as high as his cheek bones, for the line from which it was shaved was cleanly drawn and marked by the dark fringe remaining above. His mustache was black and heavy, and he wore very small, closely cropped whiskers like those affected by naval officers. He had one of those arrogant, vain, astute noses which seem to point at whatever the small and beady black eyes judge to be worth having.

  At a glance, Lawrence saw that Brinsley was an athlete, and he guessed instantly that the man must be good at all those things which Louis himself was unable to do. He was a man to ride, drive, run, pull an oar, and beat everybody at tennis. But neither was that the reason why Lawrence hated him from the first. It had been the touch of his hard dry hand, perhaps, or the flash of the light in his small black eyes, or his self-satisfied and all-conquering expression. It was not easy to say. Possibly, too, Louis thought that Brinsley was his rival, and resented the fact that Fanny had betrayed no annoyance at the interruption.

  But Brinsley barely vouchsafed Lawrence a glance, as the latter thought, and immediately sat himself down much nearer to Miss Trehearne and the tea-table than Louis, in his previous rage, had thought fit to do.

  “Well, Miss Trehearne,” said Brinsley, “how is Tim? Isn’t he all right yet?”

  “He’s better,” answered Fanny. “He had a bad time of it, but you can’t kill a wire-haired terrier, you know. He wouldn’t take the phosphate. I believe it was sweetened, and he hates sugar.”

  “So do I. Please don’t give me any,” he added quickly, watching her as she prepared a cup of tea for him.

  Lawrence’s resentment began to grow again. It was doubtless because Mr. Brinsley never took sugar that Fanny had seemed scornfully surprised at the artist’s weakness for it.

  CHAPTER IV.

  LOUIS LAWRENCE WAS exceedingly uncomfortable during the next few minutes, and to add to his misery, he was quite conscious that he had nothing to complain of. It was natural that he should not know the people in Bar Harbour, excepting those whom he had known before, and that he should be in complete ignorance of all projected gaieties. Of course no one had suggested to the Reveres, for instance, to ask him to their dance; because they were Boston people, they did not know him, and nobody was aware that he was within reach. Besides, Louis Lawrence was a very insignificant personage, though he was well-connected, well-bred, and not ill-looking. He was just now a mere struggling artist, with no money except in the questionable future, and if he had talent, it was problematical, since he had not distinguished himself in any way as yet.

  He remembered all these things, but they did not console him. In order not to seem rude, he made vague remarks from time to time, when something occurred to him to say, but he inwardly wished Brinsley a speedy departure and a fearful end. Fanny seemed amused and interested by the man’s conversation, and she herself talked fluently. Now and then Brinsley looked at Lawrence, really surprised by the latter’s ignorance of everything in the nature of sport, and possibly with a passing contempt which Lawrence noticed and proceeded to exaggerate in importance. The artist was on the point of asking Fanny’s permission to go and find the room allotted to him, when a sound of women’s voices, high and low, came through the open windows. There was an audible little confusion in the hall, and the three Miss Miners entered the library one after the other in quick succession.

  “Oh, Mr. Brinsley!” exclaimed Miss Cordelia, the eldest, coming forward with a pale smile which showed many of her very beautiful teeth.

  “Mr. Brinsley is here,” said Miss Elizabeth, the ugly one, in an undertone to Miss Augusta, who possessed the accomplishments.

  Then they also advanced and shook hands with much cordiality, the remains of which were promptly offered to Lawrence. Mr. Brinsley did not seem in the least overpowered by the sudden entrance of the three old maids. He smiled, moved up several chairs to the tea-table, and laughed agreeably over each chair, though Lawrence could not see that there was anything to laugh at. Brinsley’s vitality was tremendous, and his manners were certainly very good, so that he was a useful person in a drawing-room. His assurance, if put to the test, would have been found equal to most emergencies. But on the present occasion he had no need of it. It was evidently his mission to be worshipped by the

  Street in Village.

  three Miss Miners and to be liked by Miss Trehearne, who did not like everybody.

  “I’m sure we’ve missed the best part of your visit,” said Miss Cordelia.

  “Oh, no,” answered Brinsley, promptly. “I’ve only just come — at least it seems so to me,” he added, smiling at Fanny across the tea-table.

  Lawrence thought he must have been in the room more than half an hour, but the sisters were all delighted by the news that their idol meant to stay some time longer.

  “How nice it would be if everybody made such speeches!” sighed Miss Augusta to Lawrence, who was next to her. “Such a charming way of making Fanny feel that she talks well! I’m sure he’s really been here some time.”

  “He has,” answered Lawrence, absently and without lowering his voice enough, for Brinsley immediately glanced at him.

  “We’ve been having such a pleasant talk about the dogs and horses,” said the Canadian, willing to be disagreeable to the one other man present. “I’m afraid we’ve bored Mr. Lawrence to death, Miss Trehearne — he doesn’t seem to care for those things as much as we do.”

  “I don’t know anything about them,” answered the young man.

  “I’m afraid you’ll bore yourself in Bar Harbour, then,” observed Mr. Brinsley. “What can you find to do all day long?”

  “Nothing. I’m an artist.”

  “Ah? That s very nice — you’ll be able to go out sketching with Miss Augusta — long excursions, don’t you know? All day—”

  “Oh, I shouldn t dare to suggest such a thing!” cried Miss Augusta.

  “I’m sure I should be very happy, if you’d like to go,” said Lawrence, politely facing the dreadful possibility of a day with her in the woods, while Brinsley would in all likelihood be riding with Fanny or taking her out in a catboat.

  But Miss Augusta paid little attention to him, so long as Brinsley was talking, which was most of the time. The man did not say anything worth repeating, but Lawrence knew that he was far from stupid in spite of his empty talk. At last Lawrence merely looked on, controlling his nervousness as well as he could and idly watching the faces of the party. Brinsley talked on and on, twisting to pieces the stem of a flower which he had worn in his coat, but which had unaccountably broken off.

  Lawrence wondered whether Fanny, too, could be under the charm, and he watched her with some anxiety. There was something oddly inscrutable in the young girl’s face and in her quiet eyes that did not often smile, even when she laughed. He had the strong impression, and he had felt it before, that she was very well able to conceal her real thoughts and intentions behind a mask of genuine frankness and straightforwardness. There are certain men and women who pos
sess that gift. Without ever saying a word which even faintly suggests prevarication, they have a masterly reticence about what they do not wish to have known, whereby their acquaintances are sometimes more completely deceived than they could be by the most ingenious falsehood. Lawrence was quite unable to judge from Fanny’s face whether she liked Brinsley or not, but he was wounded by a certain deference, if that word be not too strong, which she showed for the man’s opinion, and which contrasted slightly with the dictatorial superiority which she assumed towards Lawrence himself. He consoled himself as well as he could with the reflexion that he really knew nothing about dogs, horses, or boats, and that Brinsley was certainly his master in all such knowledge.

  As an artist, he could not but admire the perfect proportions of the visitor, the strength of him, and the satisfactory equilibrium of forces which showed itself in his whole physical being; but as a gentleman he was repelled by something not easily defined, and as a lover he suspected a rival. He had not much right, indeed, to believe that Fanny Trehearne cared especially for him, any more than to predicate that she was in love with Brinsley. But, being in love himself, he very naturally arrogated to himself such a right without the slightest hesitation, and he boldly asserted in his heart that Brinsley was nothing but a very handsome ‘cad,’ and that Fanny Trehearne was on the verge of marrying him.

  The conversation, meanwhile, was lively to the ear, if not to the intelligence. It was amazing to see how the three spinsters flattered their darling at every turn. Miss Cordelia led the chorus of praise, and her sisters, to speak musically, took up the theme, and answer, and counter-theme of the fugue, successively, in many keys. There was nothing that Mr. Brinsley did not know and could not do, according to the three Miss Miners, or if there were anything, it could not be worth knowing or doing.

  “You’ll flatter Mr. Brinsley to death,” laughed Fanny, “though I must say that he bears it well.”

  A faint shade of colour rose in Miss Cordelia’s pale cheeks, indicative of indignation.